In the sudden quiet stars wheel across his vision – a juddering array of lights careering through his skull, distracting and puzzling him. For a moment he can’t remember where he is or what the lights mean, then an obliterating pain crumps through him so he can’t react when he feels hands on him, hauling him up, dragging him; there’s only room in his head for the pain and confusion, nothing else. He has no idea what’s happening to him. He feels hot air on his face, choking smoke and the stink of burning hair. On instinct, he resists. He strains with every muscle in his body and in the next breath he realises that the burning smell is him. He opens his eyes and sees flames, swirling sparks, the dark ground and sky wheeling dizzily beyond – he has lost all sense of up and down, of which way round things should be. The sense of it all is tantalisingly close, but trying to unravel it is exhausting. The fire has a hypnotic beauty; Ettore stares down into it and decides not to bother fighting any more, and suddenly he hears Livia’s voice in his ear. Tell me I’m your sweetheart, she whispers. Ettore frowns, and tries to answer her. Tell me I’m your sweetheart. The smoke fades to pale grey, or perhaps he does. He’s in a soft, light place and he thinks he can smell a woman – her hair, her skin, the ready wetness between her legs. A spike of longing shoots through him but then the sense of her is gone. There are no more whispers in his ear, no more tender scents; there’s darkness and burning, and the longing turns to ire.
Ettore arches his body violently, shoving back against the man who was about to wrestle him over the wall into the fire below. The pain in his head is incandescent but he shuts it out. He’s stronger than his assailant, and angrier. He braces his hands against the hot stone parapet and pushes them both back from the edge, then lets his weight drop to throw the man off balance, and break his grip. Ettore turns, swinging a fist and landing a glancing blow on the man’s jaw. The man grunts and it’s an oddly high-pitched sound. Grimacing, Ettore hits him, again and again. There’s a clatter as his assailant staggers back and kicks the rifle he dropped, spinning it on the stone.
‘You should have fucking shot me,’ says Ettore. He can hardly hear his own voice above the booming inside his skull. ‘You should have just fucking shot me!’ He knocks the man’s legs out from under him, reaching down for the rifle and wrestling it from his attacker’s hands when he grabs for it. But the man’s resistance has crumbled; he curls into a ball and covers his face with his hands, and makes a strange noise. Ettore brings the rifle up, his finger on the trigger, sleek black barrel not a metre from the guard’s head. But that noise makes him hesitate. High-pitched, familiar, incongruous. Ettore blinks, scowls, tries to organise his thoughts around the pressure building in his skull. Then he bends down and pulls the guard’s hands from his face. The man is sobbing. The man is a boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, and he’s weeping in sheer terror.
Swaying and shocked, Ettore lowers the rifle. He puts one hand up to the place on his head, near the temple but mercifully slightly higher, where the pain is worst. His fingers come away bloody, and his own touch is intolerable.
‘Jesus,’ he mumbles, sitting down abruptly next to the boy. Vaguely, he pats the boy’s arm to soothe him. ‘Jesus,’ he says again. ‘I almost shot you… I almost…’ Ettore can’t make the thought or the sentence finish. The night is thudding as though the whole world has a heartbeat. From below there’s more shouting but fewer gunshots; the fire roars as it devours the gates, and from the barns come the startled noises of animals as they smell the smoke. Ettore tries to gather himself. He looks down at the quivering boy curled, fetal, beside him. He has hair the colour of earth, fair skin and a small mouth, bloodied and contorted with fear; a dark patch of urine is spreading around the crotch of his trousers. ‘Boy,’ says Ettore. He clears his throat, tries again. ‘Boy, enough. It’s over. Nobody’s going to kill you,’ he says. The boy shows no sign of having heard him. ‘You fetched me one hell of a crack around the head. Would you really have thrown me over? Perhaps you would. Fear can make us strong, can’t it? Well.’ He looks down at the prone figure. ‘To a point, it can.’ With the rifle’s help Ettore stands, gingerly, his stomach churning in protest. ‘Stay up here. Don’t come down until we’ve gone. And for God’s sake don’t attack anyone.’
Down in the courtyard the fight is over. The annaroli are in one corner, standing in a resigned huddle. Only one of the raiders needs to watch them, with a pistol in each hand – there’s no fight in them. Ettore staggers over to where most of his comrades are gathered, in the far corner of the courtyard where an arched doorway leads down into a cellar. They’re passing out weapons – rifles and pistols, belts of ammunition, even a few old officers’ swords. The drumbeat in his head is still making Ettore slow, but his eyes search out his sister. It’s hard when their faces are all covered, but he can tell her by her build and the way she moves, and when she sees him she comes over at once, her eyes bright with worry until she’s sure it’s him, and that he isn’t shot.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I got into a fight with a child,’ he says thickly.
‘You did what? Is it just your head?’
‘Yes – ah! Paola! Don’t touch.’
‘All right. But I’ll need to clean it when we get home. You big baby,’ she says, and he can tell how relieved she is that they’ve both survived. She herself is not only unscathed but seemingly unruffled. The skin of her forehead, the only part of her face that shows, is smooth and clean, with a slight sheen of perspiration, and Ettore marvels at her, even as he feels slightly removed from her. He pictures her as the cross-legged child he once knew, and it’s clear that she’s transmuted herself somehow; that she’s had to. From flesh to iron; from girl to soldier.
There’s a shout of outrage from the proprietor as he’s disarmed and brought out at gunpoint. He’s dragged into the courtyard by a man on each arm, dressed for bed in his drawers and a long linen shirt. A young man, in his thirties; good-looking and well fed, with a rosy pout of a mouth and fine, straight hair. Not a Gioia man; not even a Puglian. The cracked, sunburnt skin across his nose and cheeks is clearly not used to the southern sun.
‘Show your faces, you cowards! You pieces-of-shit bastards!’ he shouts. There’s a low chuckle from the assembled raiders. ‘I called for help as soon as you got here. I telephoned for help – the carabinieri will be here, and others – I think you know which others I’m talking about. So you’d better give up.’ The tenant’s eyes are wide, popping out of his head. He looks like he could run to the moon on the excitement.